


Of Handwritten Letters in the Winter

by ohssens



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, M/M, New York City, Sehun-centric, Writer AU, journalism?? au, sehun is the most precious thing ever, tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 21:24:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7123099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohssens/pseuds/ohssens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sehun falls in love in 1950's New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Handwritten Letters in the Winter

**I.**

The newsroom of the New York Times had reached its peak since the year 1955 leapt into December.

Papers were scattered all about everywhere: on the tables, and on the floor- but nobody seemed to mind; various reporters, staffers, and producers had continued to crowd and inch themselves along the long tables of endlessly working journalists. The staccato sounds of their clicking typewriter keys were constant in the air, still, and the overall, accumulated noises of chatter, shuffling feet, and telephones ringing had nearly sounded like a chaotic roar that would never end.

Sehun exasperatedly punched on the keys of his typewriter in undulated, lethargic spurs. He had already written about Eisenhower more than he could count the past few weeks, and he was tired of it. But what was he to do? People loved Eisenhower! Though Sehun didn’t care at all– the clump of information he was forced to swallow extinguished the initial excitement he had towards the president. Working as a journalist did strange things to one, it seemed. Like being deprived the enthusiastic patriotism everyone else had. Sehun was almost envious of the average American, and Sehun knew he was no average American anymore.

Sehun knew what bothered him right then and there. It was the sort of thing he wouldn’t try to tell anybody, because he knew they wouldn’t be able to understand. It was the waste actions and entitlement he had come to hate– and in here, it was the useless, political discourse in the newsroom, often initiated by his older male co-workers who had worked for The Times for decades now. Their complaining was meaningless to him, and the sense that they were all helpless, and that all ability to do good had been erased, because their efforts had stopped with merely arriving at conclusions through whining, was pitiful. It seemed to paralyze them from doing any concrete action whatsoever. Oh, these men were such fragile things; Sehun might have been able to sympathize with them had they treated him better in the workplace.

Sehun watched them from time to time, but it was meaningless; they had, and probably will, always look the same. The excess clumps of wrinkled skin on their faces sagged, and the scattered brown spots all over the temples of their head had never disappeared. Sehun tried to imagine himself in one of their places in the future, but he shuddered, and found that he was unable to.

It was too depressing. Sehun took a quick glance at the calendar mounted on the wall, and counted the days he had left in the Times until he would decide to resign, dreaming of the liberation that would soon come. He had thought of all these while typing.

 

 

“Sehun Oh!”

 

 

Somebody had yelled his name, but Sehun could not see who it was from the people swarming all over the newsroom. Finally, he stood up, and saw that it was Yixing. He was an intern in The Times just as Sehun had once been.

“Yes?”

Yixing walked towards him, “You’re needed in the publishing house,” Then he said, apologetically and hesitantly, “Because Eisenhower had dropped by yesterday.”

“Okay.” Since when had Political Journalism gotten so poor? “So I shall go now; good-by.” Sehun wore his camera by the lace on his neck, and walked past Yixing.

“Good-by.” Yixing said. Suddenly he seemed to have remembered something; he immediately tried to catch up to Sehun, yelling, “Do you need somebody to drive you, Mr. Oh?”

Sehun didn’t bother to look back, simply holding up an O.K sign for Yixing to see. Sehun had ended up taking the bus.

 

 

 

It was a publishing house like any other. Huge, filled with mazes of bookshelves, and busy. In a way, it also resembled the newsroom in the Times. Sehun had taken photographs of its interior, of its machines, unsurprisingly producing novels of Hemingway, and Capote in bulks. He had interviewed one of the employees afterwards, and then had gone as soon as he was finished with all he was tasked.

As soon as he stepped outside the building, the cold wind suddenly enveloped his skin, as if the winds had been looking for another human to devour on the sidewalk, and that person had been Sehun. But Sehun liked the feeling of it. He had always felt a certain kind of fondness for the seasons, and winter was definitely its own kind of beauty.

He walked around Fifth Avenue, the cold still cupping his cheeks, and wondered if The Times was looking for him right now. If he continued to loiter around the Fifth, then head to Madison Avenue to grab a bite, they wouldn’t know, would they? Would it even matter to them?

But in the midst of contemplating it, somebody had approached him from behind and tapped his shoulder.

“You’re Oh Sehun, aren’t you? Oh Sehun from The Times?”

Sehun turned around. The man was a stranger. “Yes, I am.”

He held out a hand for Sehun to shake. “Oh, boy; I’m Kim Joonmyun, from the Macmillian Publishers.” The Macmillian Publishers! How timely. Joonmyun, as he introduced himself, took something out of his breast pocket. “And say, if you need anything, this is my business card alright.” He said with a smile.

“And this is mine.” And Sehun had given him his own in return.

The conversation had ended right there, and Joonmyun had gone, heading straight to the Publishing House.

 

 

 

  
A sense of purpose bloomed in Sehun’s chest, which continued to grow until he had gotten back to the Times a few hours later, and then to his apartment. ‘Where you been, Sehun? Anyway, it’s time to go home. Good-by.’ Nobody in The Times had seemed to look for him the entire time he was gone. He normally wouldn’t know what to make out of that, but that didn’t matter much to him anymore– after all, was he not, in fact, ‘Sehun Oh from The Times’? Somebody had just recognized him! Was this what fame felt like? It immediately made him ponder over his decision to resign and leave; maybe he shouldn’t be resigning anymore. Doing so would be like releasing a title that required long, working years to attain. And title was heavier than freedom, he knew.

Sehun Oh from The Times. The name rang a good number of times in his head. His chest swelled with pride for himself, and he had felt happy again, for the first time in a long while.

Then his own feet led him to the ballet studio nearby. That was where his bestfriend, Jongin, had worked, just west of Manhattan. What other good way was there to celebrate joy with good company?

 

 

 

 

“Wow, nice seeing you here.” Jongin said as soon as he saw Sehun.

Jongin’s hand gripped onto the bar mounted on the mirrored wall, and his leg was stretched upwards, toes perfectly pointed to the ceiling. He was in the middle of teaching young girls a ballet piece, and it must have taken a long time before Sehun arrived, because Jongin’s bronze thighs were already glistening with sweat and his hair was damp.

“Nice seeing you here too.” Sehun casually strolled in, and stood right behind him.

“You’re shameless!” Jongin said good-naturedly. He got up on his two feet, finally, and had murmured praises of ‘good job, good job,’ before telling the girls that it was time to rest. Then he faced Sehun, “So what brings you here?”

“Nothing, really,” Sehun leaned against the mirror. “I just wanted to drop by and say hello.”

But Jongin recognized the slight smile on his lips, and he wasn’t buying that. “You’re happy today, huh?”

“Yes!” Then upon realizing his sudden enthusiasm, Sehun embarrassedly smiled, sheepishly, and nodded. “I mean, yes– yes I am happy.”

Jongin raised an eyebrow, also damp with sweat. “Let’s meet up for coffee with Jongdae today.”

 

 

 

 

“Sehun, Sehun, Sehun.” Jongdae smiled, his lips curving at both ends. Despite sitting down like this, Sehun still towered over him. He massaged the nape of Sehun’s neck, “I missed you! Finally. How’re you doing?”

“Same old, same old.” Sehun took a sip from his latte. “Y’know, just writing for The Times and all that.” Sehun had always, always felt comfortable with Jongdae. Jongdae was one of his first friends here in Manhattan, whom he met through Jongin.

“You say it so casually.” Jongdae said.

“And Sehun still hates his job.” Jongin chimed in.

“You _hate_ it!?” Jongdae cried out, nearly yelling had he not been so surprised, “But you work for The Times!”

Sehun rolled his eyes. He mockingly slurred, “Po-li-tics.”

“Well that’s politics for you all right.” Jongdae laughed, now calmed down. “Have you ever thought of transferring genres or branches or something like that?”

Sehun had never flirted with the idea of a slight change in career, but he should’ve done that months ago, he thought. Transferring to another branch sounded like a good idea. He would get paid less, probably, but that didn’t matter– only his convenience mattered to him at this point. So he knew what he was going to do now. He would walk up to the Director first thing on Monday, and would tell him that he had wished to shift to Arts Journalism instead. He knew this as the right thing to do- a step to comfort, a step to joy. And suddenly he could not wait for Monday.

Sehun shook his head. “No, but I think I will. Soon.”

“Well, that’s great. As long as you’re happy, really.”

Sehun had gotten home in a daze that night, internally bewildered at how far he had gotten by himself, in title, and in accomplishment. Sehun had the whole world ahead of him. At twenty-two, he was unstoppable.

 

 

 

 

**II.**

When Monday had arrived, Sehun was ecstatic. The Times had an insufficient number of journalists in the Arts sector, it seemed, and as a result, Sehun had successfully been transferred. He would replay this fact over and over in his head, rewind the sound of the director saying, ‘Okay, you got it. You’re transferred.’, until a week had past, and he had received a letter from Kim Joonmyun. _(Who’s Kim Joonmyun again? Oh, right, Joonmyun from the Macmillan publishers, Sehun had remembered when he saw Joonmyun’s business card lying on his worktable.)_

And so he opened the envelope, unfolding the letter, all written in neat handwriting. He could’ve just written this with a typewriter, and this Joonmyun guy had probably wanted to reach out to him really badly, Sehun thought. Anyhow, the letter read:

 

 

 

_December 9, 1955_

_Dear Mr. Oh,_

_This is Kim Joonmyun from the Macmillan Publishers; we had come across each other the day you were tasked to visit the publishing house and we exchanged business cards, so I assume that this letter does not surprise you when it arrives._

_As a follower of your writings, I’ve noticed your shift to Arts Journalism, from Political Journalism. You had written about the controversial ‘Lolita’, instead of the usual Eisenhower. Of course, your shift to the Arts intrigues me, for obvious reasons; after all, I do work in a publishing house. With that said, would you be free to have lunch at the Milford Plaza Hotel, on the 15th?_

_Please do write back._

_Sincerely,_

_Kim Joonmyun_

And Sehun had indeed written back. _Yes,_ he had written, _I would be glad to have lunch in in Milford on the 15th with you._

He dropped by the post-office the next morning, when the temperature had gone on an all-time-low that his hand violently shook from the lack of warmth as soon as he had taken out his gloves. Finally, he dropped the letter in the slot.

He proceeded to walk all the way to the Times, buying a cup of warm coffee somewhere on the way and finishing it a while after, crushing the styrofoam cup and throwing it in the first bin he had seen.

 

 

 

And Sehun went through work in a breeze that day, happily typing out 3,000-word reviews of different sorts of things he had always liked– of places, of novels, about film. The first thing he had done as an Arts Journalist was write about Berlin. And then he had written about Zurich. He loved that Arts Journalism wasn’t limited to places and such; it was everything!– Everything art, and everything Sehun had loved. He had seen a Broadway play last week with Jongin, and had written about that, too.

  
And why did people talk of ‘working to live’, he wondered.

  
Before he knew it, the 15th had arrived.

 

 

 

 

Sehun only realized who exactly Joonmyun was when he was sitting in one of the chairs in Milford. Joonmyun had reserved a table for the both of them– that Joonmyun, he realized. He had only heard of his name in the midst of family reunions, when the elderly talked of money and wealth. But yes, he remembered now. Of course he knew the Kims. How could he forget? Kim Joonmyun, the familiar yet far-sounding name that rang in his ears. His family was said to be one of the richest in Manhattan.

 

“Hello.”

 

Then suddenly Joonmyun appeared. Sehun must have missed him entering the door from his daydreaming.

“Kim Joonmyun. Nice to meet you,” Joonmyun held out a hand, and smiled, “...again.”

“Oh Sehun.” Sehun gave him a polite nod, and shook his hand. They both took their seats.

Sehun looked at him in awe, and suddenly Sehun felt very, very small. A rush of inferiority sprung in his head, and he felt that he could never be at par with Joonmyun, never be as great as someone such as Joonmyun. When could he ever, and how dare he even compare himself to somebody so grand? He looked down at his own neatly-tied pair of Oxford shoes.

“Have you ever done this before?” Joonmyun asked. He now seemed loosely professional, giving Sehun a friendly smile.

“What?” Sehun asked, looking up. He had finally gotten the courage to look at him straight in the eyes.

And just as Joonmyun was about to reply, a waiter approached their table and asked for their orders, momentarily disrupting the conversation; Joonmyun had ordered tea, and Sehun told the waiter he was going to have the same. And then the waiter left.

Immediately Joonmyun resumed to Sehun, smiling at him, still. “Meet with a publisher at their own request, I mean.”

They were a pair of soft-looking eyes. They were slightly slanted upwards, and a few lines laid under them, though they were only minuscule and light. But Joonmyun’s irises were an entirely different realm. They held a certain kind of force, it seemed, that Sehun could not look away. They were filled with a certain kind of innocence, a type of kindness, that had willed him to do all the good he could in this world, and in the same time, stand up in this instant and hurry to his apartment, to his typewriter that was on the desk beside his bed. He wanted to write millions and millions of stories about Joonmyun’s eyes. Unbelievable! Unbelievable that a mere pair of eyes could will him to do such things.

Sehun slightly shook his head and set those thoughts away. He could no longer tolerate the idea of abruptly standing up and running away from Joonmyun. Of course, because the action would be so impolite, and so unlike Joonmyun. Then Sehun cynically wondered if Joonmyun did this a lot, if he met promising authors on a daily basis for the potential earning to himself.

But then Sehun raised his head, looked at Joonmyun straight in the eyes again, and changed his mind. He was now sure that Joonmyun would never.

“No. Never, actually.”

“I thought so too.” Joonmyun chuckled. He reached for his briefcase on the ground, beside his chair, and took out a number of papers. “Anyway, the reason I’d asked you out here was because I wanted to know, if, you were interested in novelism, perhaps? Or short stories, at least. Now that you’re an Arts Journalist.”

He began to explain the contracts and the legal bonds that the publishing house and Sehun were to share if Sehun would sign the papers. Joonmyun spoke of obvious conditions: income division, the rights of the novel, deadlines, the processes of publishing...

Sehun sat straight on his seat, crossing his legs under the table. He continued to passively listen to Joonmyun speak. He wished he could have listened attentively- he really did! But he couldn’t; his head felt airy, and he knew himself well enough to recognize that it was an overwhelming fusion of pride, and a sudden sense of responsibility.

But Joonmyun hadn’t seemed to notice. Something about him as a whole came off as rigid, Sehun noticed; it was Joonmyun’s politeness, his main trait, it looked, that nearly composed a whole of his personality. His thin lips, that only moved in restricted movements, and the obligatory smiles his mouth broke into during short silences. It was as if Joonmyun came straight from a novel, intricately and artificially crafted.

And Sehun had long stopped listening. He knew he was going to sign the contract, anyway. But then an accidental nod of his head had prompted Joonmyun to continue talking; oh, he had probably mistaken Sehun’s scrutiny of the bridge of his nose for interest, Sehun surmised.

“... all right? so are you willing to work under this deal, Mr. Oh Sehun?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a yes? So, you’re part of the publishing company now…”

Sehun politely nodded. He leaned forward, and signed the papers. Joonmyun’s lips broke out into a small smile- rather triumphantly- and it made Sehun smile, too. It was a heartwarming feeling, like giving candy to a child. (Except that Joonmyun was no child, and legal contracts were definitely not pieces of candy.)

“You can write to me later if you have any more questions. I believe you already have my business card?”

“Yes, I do, Mr. Kim.”

“Of course.” Joonmyun smiled again. “Thank you, Mr. Oh. I should see you soon.”

 

 

 

 

**III.**

The sun was shining even in the midst of December. It always shone in New York during Winter, which was quite strange, but Sehun had stopped questioning it through the years he lived in the city now. The sky was an electric blue, and the collective bright rays of light the sun emitted, it seemed, was now quite an unfamiliar sight to Sehun, and he had only realized then that it really was Winter already.

He sighed in contentment; today was one of those days where happiness for him was barely out of reach. He rested his cheeks on both of his palms and stared outside the window quizzically. How could happiness be so imperceptible? It wasn’t fair.

“So what kind of stories would you want to actually publish?” Jongin suddenly asked. “Romance? Crime? Oh, but how you gonna about romance? You’ve never experienced that.” He was unapologetically sprawled on Sehun’s bed, beside Sehun’s worktable.

Jongin reminded him about that contract with Joonmyun, or the Macmillan Publishers, rather, and suddenly he smiled. That made him happy. Oh, what a wonderful thing to do, he thought. To write what he wanted, how he wanted. Then he would have to meet up with Joonmyun often, and have him examine the content, because Joonmyun was technically his publisher now.

“I don't know, I’ll just write whatever I feel like, and make the stories create themselves, I think.” Sehun replied. He closed his eyes, and calmly ran his bony fingers through his smooth, brown hair– once, twice, and then thrice. He took his glasses off and delicately set them on the table. “Haven't you got a date with Kyungsoo later, by the way?”  
“Still in the evening.” Jongin groggily replied.

Sehun perfunctorily murmured in understanding. He resumed staring outside the window.

“I can introduce you to somebody Kyungsoo and I know, in any case. If ever you’re interested.” Jongin reassured him. Sometimes, Jongin seemed to be able to read his mind; maybe, just maybe it was the product of an unbreakable, fifteen-year-old bond between the two.

Sehun laughed. “No, it’s fine. Thank you.”

 

 

 

 

Sehun checked the clock on the wall. 7 o’clock in the evening. Jongin had already left his apartment to meet up with Kyungsoo in a nearby bar.

But Jongin had a point. How would he be able to write, anyway? He could write about romance, perhaps, and then merely imagine a passionate, sweltering love he wished he was captured in- Oh, no- but imagination could be so fickle, Sehun solemnly realized. That wouldn’t be enough, and Joonmyun wouldn’t be content with that. ‘Artificial’ would be the last adjective he would want his works to be described with.

He pursed his lips into a downward line, feeling slightly upset. He suddenly stood up, put on a coat, changed from boxers to trousers, and wore the thickest pair of socks he could find, before walking out of his apartment building in his brown suedes.

And just where had Jongin gone to, again…? Oh, right. The newly opened bar in twenty-eighth street.

Sehun walked towards them in the night. He wasn’t obligated to write novels, at least not yet, but pride and flattery (and possibly an inflated ego, too), had urged him to do so, and he had automatically assumed a sense of responsibility. It was difficult for him not to do things he knew he could conquer.

 

 

 

“Oh, how dramatic, our Oh Sehun,” Kyungsoo seemed happy and genuinely surprised to see him. “Walking in a restaurant and asking us what precisely love is. You never fail to amuse me.”

Sehun laughed. “To write is to entertain, after all.”

Kyungsoo smiled at him, impressed. “And still as intelligent as ever.”

“Want anything? a Martini? A slice of cake?” Jongin chimed in. “I’ll pay.”

“Oh, a martini would be nice. Thank you.”

 

 

 

Their food came a few moments later. “You sleeping with anybody?” Kyungsoo asked, resting his cheek on his fist. He looked genuinely surprised when Sehun shook his head, dreadfully whispering, _‘Nobody.’_ But Kyungsoo continued, “You’re quite the handsome guy, I would say. Come on, look at you. Broad shoulders, fair skin, a jawline that could cut...”

“Well, I’ve never really...” Sehun pursed his lips into a thin line, staring holes into his half-finished Martini. “I just feel that I’m different. I don’t know why.” Then after a beat, he added, “I don’t know what I want.”

Jongin laughed, “Yeah, Soo, give him a break! Sehun thinks he’s special.”

Sehun glared at Jongin.

“I’m joking, I’m joking! sheesh,” Jongin looked at his wristwatch.

 

 

 

A few hours later, they had walked out the restaurant after they had finished eating, and into the night of the streets. Much to their dismay though, the sky was pouring, and Jongin had parked quite far. They had no choice but to walk. And so they did.

Jongin and Kyungsoo shared an umbrella, while Sehun was left to take off his coat and use it to shield himself from the rain.

Then they were in Jongin’s car. He was setting up the engine now. “Did you walk all the way here or did you take a taxi?”

“I walked.”

“God, Sehun,” Jongin whined in disbelief, elongating the 'u' in 'Sehun', “You could have just rented a bicycle!”

Kyungsoo laughed. “Always full of surprises.”

Sehun frowned at the both of them.

 

 

 

 

They had just gotten back from the bar with Kyungsoo, after Jongin had dropped him off his home, when Jongin decided to invite himself to Sehun’s apartment. Jongin had lived only across him. He entered Sehun’s room like it was his own, but Sehun didn’t seem to mind. “Where are going? Why are your clothes all over the place?”  
Sehun turned back and locked the door, pocketing his apartment keys. “I’m visiting my parents tomorrow.” He sighed, rolling his eyes at the whole idea of obligatory visits. It was meaningless and unnecessary, because what was the value of a visit if he had none the will to do so, anyway? He had thought of it as being forcibly cornered into a position of insincerity, and felt victimized for having left no other choice.

“Oh,” Jongin evidently relaxed. Sehun’s parents stayed in New Jersey, where they had both grown up before they moved to Manhattan. “Well, I’m only coming home for Christmas. How long’re you staying over there though? Aw, cheeses... I kinda miss the place.” He pouted.

“Me too.” And only the place, the place and nothing else. But then the image of his mother came in his head, and nevermind, he defeatedly thought. He also missed his mother. “I’m only staying for two nights, though; I’m not coming home for Christmas anymore. Ma understands how busy it can get in The Times.”

“Oh, okay. So two nights? Only?” Jongin looked worried. “Didn’t you used to visit a week?”

Sehun simply shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t want (or know how, rather) to explain that the thought of staying away from Manhattan for just more than a few days made his stomach sick. A tiny prick of guilt scratched within the linen of his ribs, because he felt like he was lying to Jongin– but it could not be helped. How could he possibly explain that Manhattan now felt like home, when he and Jongin both grew up in New Jersey? Wasn’t that like discarding all the times they’d shared together, and leaving home and everything else behind? And so he kept silent.

Sehun was not himself anymore, he knew; he was not the same Sehun from last month, or the same Sehun from last week. And he doubt he would ever be again.

 

 

 

 

Sehun had gone to the train station early morning the next day. There weren’t many people around. He took his train ticket from his coat pocket and looked at it, but he couldn’t read it clearly, because his hands were slightly trembling from the dread of visiting home. He remembered from last night though that the train would be coming at seven-thirty a.m, and so he stood, patiently waiting.

It was dull here now, like it always looked at any time of the day. Sehun didn’t like it. Though the floors were often cleaned, they gave off the impression of filth, of muck. The hundreds, and thousands, of urgent footsteps stepping on here during the day, Sehun could not get off his mind. He found it disgusting, and the signature urgency of the New Yorkers who had commuted to different suburbs everyday made him anxious. He hated it. Sehun suddenly wanted to get his own two feet off the floor of the train station.

  
And then the familiar sound of the train’s bell had rung. Ding-ding-ding-ding! It was officially seven-thirty now, according to several clocks, and Sehun knew his train was finally about to arrive. Thank God.

He entered the train as soon as the doors had opened, immediately taking a seat in the corner and leaning his back on the wall, his briefcase leaning on his side. He was tired. He passively watched the flickering images of buildings and people out the window, until his eyelids has closed and he had ultimately fallen asleep. It would be a few hours until he arrived in New Jersey.

 

 

 

 

Sehun’s fingers danced across the bookshelves in the living room. It was his father’s birthday, but he had felt anything but celebratory, or anything near the like, for that matter.

“Sehun, darling,” His mother had called for him. She was sitting in front of the mirror, brushing her hair. “It’s been years since you had last visited… I can feel time passing in my blood; oh, dear, have you greeted your father a happy birthday?” She asked hopelessly.

“No.” And he didn’t plan to. In his mind, his father wasn’t really his father. He was a mere benefactor, he thought, and his father had gone somewhere; most likely he had served in the war, and he never came back.

“Oh, it’s been…” She trailed off. Sehun looked at her, and saw that she now wore a troubled look. He was sure that the dread of age had struck her again, like a weight on her shoulders that became heavier each passing day, after realizing how long it had been since Sehun had last visited.

A mother’s grief will always tug on your heartstrings, he thought. It pained him to see his mother like this. Age was always a concern for her. He suddenly felt conscious of the time passing, and he wanted to wash that knowledge off, and to step out of his 22-year old skin. He yearned for the benefit of doubt, the bliss of ignorance, no matter how unhealthy; death had always been an ambivalent subject for him, and he didn’t want that for his mother. Or himself.

Sehun walked towards her. “Mother,” He comfortingly placed a hand on her shoulder, his other hand stroking the crown of her head. His fingers combed through her hair, and he noticed now that it was slightly lighter with age. “You look beautiful, ma.”

“Dear…” She held Sehun’s hand on her shoulder, and smiled, looking at him from the mirror. “Be ready now; we have a dinner out in a few moments.”  
“Okay, Ma.”

 

 

 

 

Although ridden with exhaustion, of all the unnecessary chatter, particularly the boisterous laughter of his father nearly the entire time, Sehun stood in the middle of his room in nostalgia. They had just gotten back from dinner.

Everything seemed quiet and serene now. He looked around, and the faces of Elvis Presley and The Clovers still hung around his walls. His mother had never taken them off. And for his vinyl records, they were still there, too, clean of any dust and dirt. His mother had probably dusted them regularly.

And Sehun looked around in contentment. He would remember this place, in this room, on this exact bed, where he would lay as a teenager, attempting (struggling) to answer his homework while Jongin was sprawled on the floor, listening to records of Presley. Those were good times.

Suddenly, the strong rain poured outside, all together at once, its sound cutting Sehun off his thoughts. The rain tore along the skies in an incessant, angry rhythm. Sehun could hear all of these clearly in his room. Lightning then jarred through the sky, which was followed by a loud squeal of a cat, he supposed, and a few tree branches falling. Sehun knew he would have had found that funny a few years ago. Instantly, he thought of Joonmyun. Would Joonmyun have found that funny, too? He most likely would have. Joonmyun probably would have looked outside the window to rescue whatever creature had been struck with fear. Sehun pictured that in his head, and a pleasant feeling of warmth spread through his chest. Joonmyun. He would be seeing Joonmyun once he got back to Manhattan for a consultation about the contracts, he remembered.

Sehun dressed into his pajamas and went to bed. He found that Joonmyun made him happy. It was Joonmyun, himself, that had brought him joy all this time.

Joonmyun, Joonmyun, Joonmyun, he chanted like a mantra, dreamily, in his head the entire time.

Sehun closed his eyes, and for the first time, in a very long time, he did not feel upset, or empty during the night. He envisioned better days in the darkness of his closed lids. Long, and hopeful, and fruitful days ahead of him. Those days didn’t seem to end. Those days were infinite, and the prospect of death seemed to disappear from his head, through the perpetual imaginings of hope.

And this must be love, Sehun surmised. He felt like an entire garden of flowers was blooming inside his ribcages at the realization, and oh, how beautiful of a feeling and thought that was! He imagined himself with his hands stretched out in the middle of a garden, and Joonmyun would be there. The sun would be shining against the back of his head, and Joonmyun would be smiling the smile that he realized he had come to love, through familiarity. Then, Joonmyun would tuck a flower behind Sehun’s ear, and Sehun would put his lips against his, and the largest flower beds would bloom, right in the confines of their own ribcages.

He couldn’t sleep feeling like this, Sehun realized, with his heart throbbing with a feeling he didn’t quite understand– it was unfamiliar, confusing, a bit anxiety-provoking, even, because it was the unknown. And yet it was pleasant, and Sehun could not get enough.

He got up, turned on the lights, and unclothed his Olympia typewriter. Then he started to write. His fingers seemed to acquire a life of its own, and it was as if the story had created itself, had wanted to be created; he had written a short story about a man falling in love with another man, an older man. It was something he hadn’t heard often, just as love was. Yet the story wasn’t soaked in mystery at all– Sehun had written about these men from the images in his head, and for the younger man, he had written from his own bone and blood, as if he had successfully incorporated another version of himself on paper.

These men had just fallen in love, and that was it. He supposed it would have been strange, because no one had ever written about two men falling in love. But he had always seen women and men hold hands in the streets since his youth, so why shouldn’t these men?

Finally, after hours of writing, Sehun had fallen asleep on his table; he was exhausted, but he was fulfilled. He couldn’t wait to return to Manhattan.

 

 

 

 

_Dear Mr. Kim,_

_Would you come to my apartment, once you receive this letter, if you don’t mind? All you have to do is give me a ring when you do, I’ve attached the directions to this piece of paper. There are much too many scripts I’d like you to screen, and I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to physically bring them to the Publishing House. I apologize for any inconveniences on your part._

_Sincerely,_  
_Oh Sehun_

 

 

 

 

 

**IV.**

 “This is a pretty nice place, isn’t it?” Joonmyun said, looking around. He stood in the middle of Sehun’s living room, where the kitchen was also located. “It’s very convenient.”

Sehun was clearing the room out of useless, miscellaneous, things. It was only a few hours after lunchtime, but the remains of his breakfast still stayed in his kitchen. The empty glass of milk in the sink, the mark of his lips still stained on the rim, the saucer with bread crumbs on his work-slash-dining table… Oh, this wouldn’t do. Especially since Joonmyun was there. Sehun was briskly cleaning.

“It’s not very spacious, I’m sorry. You must be so used to other-” Sehun bit his tongue. He pointed to one of the couches, “Take a seat, please, Joonmyun.”

“Thank you.”

“Hold on, let me just,” This time Sehun kneeled in front of a tall drawer unit. He had suddenly changed his mind about showing Joonmyun the story he had written in New Jersey, and was now looking for other pieces he had written in the past; he had written some a few years ago, and it had to be here, somewhere. He gave Joonmyun an apologetic look, “I’m looking for the bunch o’ papers. I’m sorry- they’re a whole lot, I promise.”

“No need to apologize,” Joonmyun smiled at him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sehun gulped. “I’m sor- do you want tea? Coffee?”

“No, I’m fine, Sehun.” He nodded to the drawer, and laughed, lightly, “Now attend to your business.”

And so Sehun did. He was aware that Joonmyun was watching him, besides looking at the sky outside the window. At one point, Joonmyun had stood up and looked at the potted plants on Sehun’s windowsill, but he sat down again shortly after.

Sehun opened and closed a few drawers and walked to his cabinets until he had found them papers. Finally. He held the pile in both hands, and went to Joonmyun.

“These are the papers.” He gently laid the pile on table, “I’ve been writing for a long time now, actually. Alongside Journalism.”

Joonmyun nodded in understanding. “May I?”

Sehun was almost surprised that he had to ask. “Oh! O-of course.” 

“I’ll get the both of us tea; is that okay with you?”

“Of course.” Joonmyun replied, eyes still trained on the papers.

 

 

 

 

“This is amazing, Sehun.” Joonmyun remarked after Sehun had gotten back with two cups of tea on their respective saucers. “I think…” His eyes were wide, shifting from the pages of papers he was holding to Sehun, “I think you are _brilliant._ ”

“Thank you,” Sehun shyly said. He sat down opposite Joonmyun.

And Joonmyun had read through almost half of them, showering Sehun with compliment after compliment. Occasionally he cracked jokes; There was one story he was in the midst of reading when he had suddenly commented, which much passion, “Then don’t be a nit wit if you don’t want your ass bit, that’s why!” Sehun forgot which one it was, but they had both laughed to the point of screaming and yelling, and Sehun could barely breathe, tears forming in both of his eyes. Joonmyun just looked glad to be able to make Sehun laugh.

Their reading went on for hours and hours, until it had gotten dark, and Sehun had to turn on the light in the living room, which was only when they had noticed how late it had gotten.

 

 

 

 

“Oh,” Joonmyun sighed, almost regrettably. He saw the clock on Sehun’s wall- it was half past nine in the evening. “It’s gotten terribly late now.”

Sehun looked back to the clock behind him, “You’re right.” He said timidly. “Do you want me to bring you to the station, Joonmyun?”

Joonmyun smiled. “No,” He sing-songed happily.

Sehun clocked his head to the right and furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

“My car’s parked somewhere there. And you’re going with me downstairs, because we’re having dinner out.” Then he added hesitantly, clearing his throat: “...Is that alright with you, Sehun?”

“Of course!” What a question! Like asking Sehun if he needed air to breathe.

 

 

 

 

 

Hours later, when Sehun had finally gotten home, where Joonmyun had drove him to after the dinner, Sehun surmised that he had probably looked at Joonmyun with stars in his eyes the entire time. Did Joonmyun look at him the same way? He didn’t know. Was he supposed to suppress the fireworks going off in his chest? Sehun didn’t know either. Smitten, Sehun would call himself, but who was he to determine what love really was? Sehun felt as helpless as a teenager, and naked, stripped off of his inhibitions. At twenty-two, Sehun was confused.

But what Sehun was sure of though, was that with Joonmyun, hours had felt like minutes, and minutes had felt like seconds. Everything was different with Joonmyun. It was as if being with Joonmyun was entering a different kind of realm, a whirlwind, and Sehun loved it. Joonmyun was everything Sehun loved; Joonmyun was the seasons, and Joonmyun was art. And most of all, Joonmyun was whom Sehun loved.

Sehun went to his bedstand and took out the story he had written back in New Jersey. He laid it on his worktable, because he knew he would need to show this to Joonmyun someday; keeping it locked in a bedstand eternally was now somehow a tantalizing thought to him. He needed to show Joonmyun.

 

 

 

 

**V.**

_“It’s too bland.”_ Joonmyun handed the script back to Sehun. “The prose is perfect. The plot, however… doesn’t hold much criteria. Or direction.” Joonmyun cleared his throat. “I’m afraid you’d have to make a few major alterations on this novel.”

“I see.” Sehun didn’t know what to feel, and he couldn’t look at Joonmyun in the eye, lest he actually starts to feel angry, and Joonmyun didn’t deserve that. But Sehun knew that he would never be angry with Joonmyun. Of course not. How could you be angry at someone as angelic as Joonmyun? Sehun’s reluctance was a mere precautionary measure.  
“You know, Sehun,” Joonmyun looks at him empathically, “We both share the same goal: and that’s to make a great book. To sell. And that won’t be a cinch, so we can’t achieve that without each other, right?”

“Yes.” Sehun obligatorily agreed. Joonmyun was talking to him like he was a child. But the words still rang in his head, _‘It’s too bland, Sehun. It’s too bland.’_

“And you do know that, if we both fail to produce a great book… this contract becomes meaningless? What use am I of a publisher to you, then?” Joonmyun cleared his throat. “Ultimately, we want to produce great, quality, content. And that’s why we’re in this together.”

“Yes.” Sehun finally looked up at Joonmyun, and Joonmyun was courteously and welcomingly smiling. The gesture was so Joonmyun, but Sehun could not bear to smile, not right now; he was crushed inside, as if a wave of realization had just crashed upon him, and he couldn’t breathe. How foolish of himself; of course, Joonmyun had only seemed to like him because Joonmyun was his publisher. Of course Joonmyun had chosen to produce a great novel over Sehun himself, because now he knew, that he was nothing but an investment to Joonmyun.

 

 

 

He had arrived in his apartment in a daze that night, spurts of grief continually throbbing within the temples of his forehead. He changed to his pajamas, and lied down on his bed, where he realized he had a fever; his eyes felt they were burning, and his head, he could barely even lift. He felt utterly weak for the first time in months.

And it was here, on his tiny bed in the corner of his room, that he finally understood his own mortality. Yes, he was human, and humans catch bouts of fever from time to time, too. But Sehun knew what else he had caught, and he hated it– he loathed it, and he wished it hadn’t exist. It was reality, hitting him straight at the face, in the form of a man named Kim Joonmyun, and it was reality, aiming to take a punch on his anatomy, taking form of a fever. Suddenly Sehun had hated himself, hated Joonmyun, and had hated the fact that he was confused.

Joonmyun was everything fleeting, he thought. It was only Joonmyun that had made him feel appreciated and recognized at one point, but now he had just felt that Joonmyun betrayed him. What a tragedy, and what a petty thing to grieve about. And Sehun knew it was petty. But what was he to do? He had no control of anything. Tears were already flowing out of his eyelids, and his mouth was already crumpling, the muscles in his jaw tense. Petty, petty, petty. Only Joonmyun could make him feel like this, and he hated it. Who was Joonmyun to think that he could make Sehun feel like this, anyway? Sehun had written stories for Joonmyun, he had signed contracts for Joonmyun– but this was how Joonmyun treated him in return! Sehun was only an investment to him, and he was willing to drop Sehun, if Sehun had failed to write ‘great, quality, content’, he said.  
Sehun had began to cry even more, more tears falling from his lids, and he felt like a child. He felt that the world had never treated him fair, and his failure to humility and acceptance, well, conjured to this. An ugly five-year-old boy in the body of a twenty-two year old male, still filled with grudge, still filled with pride, which was a strange mixture when it came to self-loathe, now that he thought about it.

Suddenly he pitied himself, and he was sorry. He wanted to say sorry to everybody around him that had been so unfortunate to get to know him– he wanted to say sorry to his mother, to his father, that he had always loathed, and say, I’m sorry I’d never been the son you wanted me to be. Then to his brother, whom he had failed in terms of brotherhood– and lastly, to Jongin. He was so, so sorry to Jongin.

Sehun had blacked out, and cried himself to sleep that night.

And in the morning, when Sehun would wake up, Sehun would forget that this all happened, and he would be reborn as the previous person he was again. He would erase everything he had known about Joonmyun, and he would be the Sehun he was before the unfortunate day of being tasked to visit the Macmillan Publishers. Sehun would be Sehun again, and home would no longer be Manhattan, just because Joonmyun was there. Home would be New Jersey again, with Jongin, and with his family. It was no metamorphosis; Sehun would just be turning into the Oh Sehun he once was, and the Oh Sehun that he was comfortable under.

 

 

 

 

**VI.**

And the next morning came. Sehun had just finished washing his face when the telephone had rung.

“Hello?”

But there was no answer, and suddenly, the line had died. How strange. Anyway, today was a new day. His fever had died off in his sleep, and Sehun was determined to show up in The Times today. He wondered what other marvels had awaited him that day.

 

Sehun had gotten home to a letter from Joonmyun that night, asking if he had still planned on publishing his short story. It was almost pitiful, how oblivious Joonmyun was to the fact that Sehun had decided to cut any form of communication between them for the rest of his life. Of course, ‘no’, was the automatic answer in Sehun’s head, but he wasn’t going to tell Joonmyun that, because he did not want to write back.

And he wouldn’t write back to the next letter, and the next letter, and the next, all of them becoming more pleading and pleading throughout the span of weeks. He didn’t know who Joonmyun was, he would tell himself. He had kept all these papers in his drawer, and had ripped parts of them to use for miscellaneous things such as keeping telephone numbers and grocery lists. Sehun had almost felt as cold-blooded as a killer, but one was always capable of ruthlessness if it meant self-fulfillment. Always.

 

 

 

 

“You seem blue nowadays.” Jongin worried remarked, a concerned look on his face. “What’s going on?” They were pedaling throughout Central Park, an activity they had gotten used to since youth.

“No; I’m happy. I’m the happiest I can be! Are happy people not allowed to frown, too?” He attempted to joke. Oh, was this really what happiness was- believing it for it to come true a while later? He could feel the air on his cheeks, and he pedaled faster.

“Well, okay; if you are happy, I’m just saying you’re happy and you’re possibly hiding some great news from me.” Jongin replied.

Great news? Sehun was almost appalled. “There’s none. I’m joking. Nothing in particular is happening. Trust me.”

“As long as you’re okay.” Jongin said, as he pedalled slightly faster. “Let’s head to the diner after.”

Sehun nodded, and then he repeated, but more to himself then Jongin, “Trust me.” But still, there was a gaping hole in his chest. And if he pretended it wasn’t there, maybe it would go away. Maybe.

 

Sehun softly cried under the confines of his bed that night.

After the collapse of his and Joonmyun’s relationship, or whatever it was, Sehun had felt so melancholic (he had refused to call himself depressed) that he felt incapable of writing fiction, and hence was unable to. His misery was so strong, his spirit almost paralyzed, that Sehun could not summon enough energy to write about other things that had any sort of personal relation to him. Ultimately, he was left to conclude that love had come with a serious price to pay.  
‘For a spoonful of joy,’ Sehun had weakly written in his journal, ‘is a gallon of melancholy and grief.’

 

 

 

**VII.**

Sehun awoke as a new person again. This had been happening for a long time now. In the night, Sehun was sadness, and he would fall asleep in a bed of tears, but in the morning, besides the swollen eyes, everything had seemed to go back to normal again. Though that was no good news. It was an ugly, tantalizing cycle of denial.

 

Eight in the morning, and it was time to write about Berlin in the New York Times again. Eccentric, and fresh Berlin in 1955.

  
He imagined himself permanently migrating to Europe, and leaving the United States for good. He was no average American anyway, he laughed to himself. He should’ve listened properly in German class back in highschool. All he ever cared about was Literature class. Sehun had always been fascinated with beautifully strung words after all, especially during his childhood years, spending long and sleepless nights under his blankets with a flashlight, ruining his eyes while poring over Fitzgerald, and Hemingway.

“Are you coming to the Christmas party later?” Mr. Shim, the head of the Arts department in The Times, had asked him, as he passed by Sehun’s worktable.

“Oh, yes I am, sir.”

“Well,” His face lit up; the Christmas season had always worked such magic. “I’ll see you there, Sehun.”

 

 

 

The Christmas party was in the King Cole Bar, unsurprisingly. How predictable of the New York Times; imagine that, the Times, celebrating their Christmas party in the King Cole Bar. But Sehun was enjoying nonetheless. He sat beside Yixing.

“Are you enjoying in The Times so far?” Sehun asked him.

“What?”

“I said,” Sehun realized he had to yell for Yixing to hear him, amidst the heavy jazz music and chatter in the background, “Are you enjoying in The times so far!?”

“Yes!” Yixing yelled back, though he literally sat beside Sehun, “I am enjoying The Times so far!”

And they both laughed. The night was going pretty fast. The feeling of Christmas was everywhere in the air; Sehun could hear it in the blurred, yet joyful chatter, in laughter everywhere. It was remarkably Christmas time.

“I have to go to the bathroom.” And Sehun stood up. It was crowded, and the bathroom was a few feet away from their table.

And as he inched himself through groups and groups of people, muttering a number of ‘excuse me’s and polite bowing, his eyes travelled to the bar, for some reason, and there, he saw Joonmyun, sipping on a bottle of beer, alone- well, at least he thought that was Joonmyun- but who else could it be? He stared at the lone figure, black hair neatly slicked, in his Ralph Lauren suit. Sehun gulped, and the realization crashed upon him. There was no way in heaven or hell that this was not Joonmyun.

Suddenly he ran back to his seat, not caring of the people he had possibly bumped on the way.

“I-I have to go.” Sehun urgently said, wearing his coat that hung on the back of his chair. His wallet fell out from the coat pocket on the way, and he knelt down and scrambled and felt everywhere on the the floor, now wet with melted snow, until he had reached out under the table and was finally he was able to pick it up. He immediately stood, and then started to walk away briskly.

“Sehun, wait-!” Yixing quickly squawked. But Sehun was far away now. Though he had heard Yixing yell. Yixing would have probably held Sehun by the arm to stop him if it were somebody else, but it was Yixing. And Yixing was kindness and everything gentle that Sehun could think of. Sehun almost felt sorry for him.

 

 

 

 

 

_Dear Joonmyun,_

_Would you be interested to meet in Milford on the 23rd? I’m sorry for the inconveniences on your part, and I understand if you cannot._

_Sincerely,_  
_Oh Sehun_

 

 

 

 

 

**VIII.**

  
  


“It’s been a very long time,” Joonmyun finally remarked after a bout of silence. 

 

Sehun murmured in agreement. 

 

“Since you’ve written,” Joonmyun added. But it wasn’t out of spite. Sehun couldn’t tell what it was. “And since… since I’ve seen you, really.”

 

Sehun finally looked up and met Joonmyun’s eyes, but he remained silent, only staring.

 

“And you look- very, very…” But Joonmyun trailed off.  _ ‘very fine,’ _ He had quietly muttered under his breath, but not loud enough for Sehun to hear. Maybe. The sentence still hung in the air, as he now realized it was useless for him to speak. Joonmyun sighed defeatedly.

 

Now Joonmyun stared at Sehun back with the same amount of intensity too, and this time Sehun could tell, that Joonmyun was looking for something. But Sehun felt that he couldn’t face him any longer than this, and he looked down, watching his own swinging feet.  

 

After another bout of silence, Joonmyun had spoken again. 

 

“Have I done you wrong, Sehun?” His voice didn’t waver, but it was full of hesitation and courage all the same. How he was able to sound like that, Sehun didn’t know. “Why haven’t you spoken to me in months?”

And Sehun looked at him again. This time he had the courage to. But he didn’t answer.

 

Sehun stared at him more intensely this time, and Joonmyun almost felt threatened- but he didn’t. After almost an hour of breathing the rigid air that hung around Sehun, stares like this hadn’t left him unnerved now.

 

And Sehun had continued to look at Joonmyun- he stared at Joonmyun like he was never going to see him again, swallowing the image of Joonmyun. Sehun’s head felt swimmy as he got lost in Joonmyun’s eyes. His heart had begun to beat faster, and everything other than Joonmyun had faded into the background- It was only Joonmyun he could see, and his head was throbbing with the thought of Joonmyun. His breath got quicker, and suddenly he could feel his chest heaving.

 

“Joonmyun,” Sehun had finally begun to talk. And he had finally let out, because he felt that he had to: “Joonmyun, I love you.”

 

And yes, Sehun did love Joonmyun. Sehun had fallen in love with Joonmyun during that brief encounter near Macmillan publishing house, and he had fallen in love with Joonmyun during the lunch in the Ritz, too. And tonight, he was going to fall in love with Joonmyun again. 

 

Sehun had fallen in love with Joonmyun, and Sehun was going to fall in love with Joonmyun again, again and again- Oh, but in a hundred, thousand, different ways this time, because it would always be Joonmyun.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> if you've reached this far, thank you! :) don't forget to comment and subscribe i'd really love to know what you guys think !


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